The Great Lie
by MagicallyDelirious
Summary: Sherlock is still reeling from the encounter with the sister he forgot and the memory of the best friend he'd altered- the childhood bathed in a whole new light. Sherlock Holmes isn't sure he knows anything anymore. His friends are worried. With no clue what to do- John finally calls the last person everyone else thinks of, but Sherlock thinks of first. (Sherlolly)
1. Chapter 1

"I- I love you."

Just three little words. Eight stupid letters strung together. The product of vibrating vocal cords and millennia of evolution. Order out of chaos. They meant something, simultaneously- nothing at all. It was relative.

They held no real power- not really- not until they did.

"I love you."

Deafening silence- heart pounding in his ears- palm sweating- chest constricting. Panic. Pain. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Hopelessness.

"Molly?"

Silence.

"Molly, please!"

He held his breath.

"I love you," barely audible, but enough.

He could breathe again. Just only, but Molly was safe. He won. Then he didn't: something inside of him broke.

It was more than he could handle- yet, focus- the task at hand. Once it was all over, then he could- if they survived. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to, yet he would- he had to- long enough to see it through. John and Mycroft, for them: for the little girl.

Emotional Context: a weakness, indeed. Yet, a strength. It could be. He knew. He learned. John was his strength and Mary, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft- Molly.

The next task- harder? No, not really. Sherlock observed and he learned. He wouldn't. She caved.

The pieces, all of them, fell into place. Memories no longer repressed, though never truly forgotten- represented so clearly in the man he'd become. The weight of it- his entire world- his reality- shattered: again.

He would never be the same- nothing would- and it wasn't.

The game wasn't as alluring. Victory, not so sweet. Bitter even. He could taste it on his tongue, until there was nothing else- he burned.

There were some things you didn't- couldn't- come back from. Everything you thought you knew- everything you thought you wanted- wrong, in the most devastating way imaginable.

"Say it like you mean it."

And he had, because it was true.

Of all the truths, in all the world- that was the most terrifying. The one he could never have deduced- because he couldn't allow it. The one he could never have fathomed- because it was too dangerous. The one he never saw coming- because he was what he was. The one he felt and knew with every fiber of his being- because now he wasn't.

Molly- what he wanted: what he could never have.

Sherlock wasn't what one would consider a good man, he knew, and he agreed. He didn't deserve her love. He didn't deserve her. She deserved better. She deserved everything. He was nothing- broken- burning all the while.

He couldn't- he wouldn't- it hurt more than he ever could have imagined.

It was nothing less than he deserved.

Eurus. Victor. How could he forget? Knowing the science behind it wasn't the same as _knowing._ His sister. His best friend. He should have felt it- he hadn't. Now, it was all he could do.

It was too much and not enough. It was suffocating and liberating. It was awful and beautiful. It was a nightmare and a day dream. His worst fear and his greatest desire. A contradiction in every sense.

It was the end of Sherlock Holmes.

A game. A battle. A war. No hope of winning. Winning was losing- something: everything. At least for him. Yet, he didn't matter- not anymore: never again. He was a fraud. A fake. A liar- just in a sense no one ever could have imagined. In a sense, he could never have imagined.

Sherlock Holmes was the lie- one he believed- but a lie non-the-less.

"What in the world…?" it was John, he knew.

He felt it before he heard him. He didn't react. Out of character, he thought. He didn't quite recall. Unsure, he stayed at the window.

"You should see the kitchen," Mrs. Hudson worried. "I don't know what to do, John."

He couldn't recall the state of the kitchen. He would fix it when they left- whatever it was.

"He did that?"

"Well, I certainly didn't."

"This is getting out of hand," John decided, angry- worried? "It's not- healthy. Something needs doing. Anything."

"You mean like an intervention?" Mrs. Hudson sounded skeptical, but not unwilling- was it desperate?

He should know, but he didn't. He resisted the urge to turn around.

"I'm not using," he hadn't really meant to speak, but it was out before he could stop it. "So, there's no need."

"No need?" John questioned exasperated- irritated? "Do you see this place? Have you seen yourself?"

He hadn't, but admittance would probably only make things worse.

"I'll clean it later," he said instead.

"Clean it?" John was getting angry- yes, angry. "It's already clean, Sherlock! Spotless!"

"Then I'll mess it up," his counter offer.

"Y- you'll mess it up?"

"If it makes you feel better, then, yes," Sherlock decided. "I'll mess it up. Later."

"Oh, do you hear yourself, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson seemed unable to help herself. "It's ridiculous! I think I quite preferred the drugs. At least it was- something."

"I can't believe it, but I'm almost inclined to agree," John's frustration was mounting- helpless.

They wanted to feel useful: helpless Sherlock understood.

"You want me to use?" he was not inclined to begin using again after his last: after seeing the anger and hurt in Molly's eyes.

He recalled that frequently as of late.

"No! I don't…" John struggled to reel himself in, a deep breath. "No, I don't want you to use, Sherlock. I do not want you to do anything…"

"Does that include messing up the kitchen?" Sherlock tried to clarify.

"I rather wish you wouldn't," Mrs. Hudson interjected.

"Then I won't," problem solved.

"Sherlock," John seemed to be struggling, and normally he would have thought it was him, but he was doing his best to be cooperative. "Sherlock, this isn't about the kitchen."

"Please, don't dirty it, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson.

"I said I wouldn't," had he not spoken aloud?

"Oh, good," Mrs. Hudson... relieved, yes.

"Not good!" John nearly shouted. "Not good, Sherlock!"

"Why not good?" Being amiable was exhausting.

"Why not? Why not?!"

Sherlock waited. John paced. Then stopped.

"Sherlock," John's tone was final. An answer. Good. "You leave me no choice."

"What?" that wasn't an answer.

That tone- but Mary was gone. He missed Mary. He missed John too, in truth, and Rosie. Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. He missed…

"Molly," John continued. "I'm phoning Molly."

"Molly?" panic swelled in his chest, and he turned unable to stop himself. "No. Absolutely not, no."

"You've left me no choice, Sherlock," John was calm- calculating.

Sherlock knew calculating. His panic mounted. His anger flared.

"No, John, no."

"Too late," John held out his phone triumphantly.

Yet, it wasn't- still ringing: Sherlock didn't think, he lunged.

* * *

A/N: So this is my first fic for this fandom, so sorry, probably- but, I couldn't stop thinking about it. The Final Problem wrecked me, and I sort of had to get it out.

Anywho, this bit takes place a bit after the whole ordeal with Eurus, but before the montage. I love Mary and the montage, and Sherlock doing well, but I dunno, I just feel like so much had to happen to get him there. His whole life was shattered- everything that happened. That he forgot. Becoming human again, and I know he's been working on that for years- I am tracking that - but in my experience getting to the root of it- breaking it all down- finally discovering the why, is so freaking disoriented.

Also I Considered Eurus' 'which one is pain' as something that would have stuck with him, and it's why Sherlock questions if his, though admittedly limited, understanding of emotions aren't what he thought they were. Sherlock was cocky and for a reason, but now, he's found out he was wrong about so many vital things in his life- people in his life- he has a damn sister- had a best friend, before John. There's a lot to sort out.

It's a pretty long road. We've seen Sherlock observe and deduce so much about just about everything- everything but himself, really? So that's sort of where we're going- we are also wearing shipper goggles on this ride of yet undetermined length- l Hope you enjoy. Also I apologize for the tittle- I got nothing else


	2. Chapter 2

Molly's heart had begun pounding as soon as she glimpsed the I.D. John had been the one to check on her after- it. The phone call. He'd explained everything; Eurus, Mycroft, the Island, Moriarty, the tests, the Governor, his wife, the non-explosives, the cameras, Sherlock's choice, the darts, the house, the song, the fire, the well- Redbeard.

Molly felt physically ill.

"What can I do?"

All but numb.

John hesitated: torn. Nothing, not her. Molly understood. It hurt, like hell: her heart broke farther, somehow. Not for herself, not entirely: for Sherlock, and John, even Mycroft. Still, she nodded, however stiffly, then managed to assure him it was alright. Told him to just ring her if she was needed. To please, not worry, she would be fine- was fine: just glad they were alive.

He didn't seem to believe her, and she didn't blame him. She wasn't sure she believed her either, but she had to be fine: so, she would be. John nodded tiredly. Molly forced a smile, hugged him, then showed him to the door. Once he was gone, she collapsed and cried in earnest.

Heartbroken. Helpless. Frightened. Sad. Angry. Broken. Hopeless. Guilty: So frickin' weak.

So many pieces fell into place, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt, and Molly stayed there till the sun peaked on the horizon.

It all came back in a rush. Her hands shook as she lifted her phone. She didn't want to answer it: afraid and a little angry. It caused her a flood of guilt. Helpless. Hopeless. Molly hesitated. Weak: self-loathing mingled with it all.

She steeled herself, pressed the button, her thumb still quivering, "John?"

It was all she had.

"Honestly!" Mrs. Hudson's voice seemed far away, but clearly chastising. "Sherlock! Not the…! Come now John! That's enough! Stop that! Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson?" panic flooded her, though, Mrs. Hudson's tone threw her off slightly. "Mrs. Hudson!"

There was scuffling and cursing. The odd thump while Mrs. Hudson continued to shout. Molly was half way to her keys, one arms in her jacket, the other pressing the phone to her ear, trying to determine what in the bloody hell was happening. Hesitating, unsure.

The panic hadn't ebbed, not really, but she didn't want to- not be needed.

"Mrs. Hudson!" – nothing, well nothing definitive. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Molly's shout startled a Pidgeon who took off from the fire escape, but she couldn't find it in her to care.

"It's answered! It's answered, Sherlock! It already answered!"

John's voice was muffled, then distant. There was another thump and a grunt, then closer.

"No!" that had been Sherlock, followed by a louder thud.

 _What in the world… but at least it was something, better than nothing, yet was it?_

"Hello!" Molly shouted into the receiver, panic beginning to ebb, but irritation mounting. "Mrs. Hudson! John! Sherlock!"

"Stop it, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson's voice was very near, and the thudding had stopped.

"No!" Sherlock, breathless, a bit distant and indiscernible. "Been…enough! … don't!"

Molly heart sank along with her stomach. Her cheeks and eyes burned. It was stupid, but she couldn't help it. She bit into her bottom lip, wanting to hang up, forget about it all, but she couldn't. What if…

"Molly, Dear," Mrs. Hudson was speaking into the receiver now, loud and clear, then shouting, dismayed. "Sherlock, you said you wouldn't dirty the kitchen!"

She heard rather loud accusations, both men blaming the other, and Molly relaxed, if only a little, even as her anger spiked. Mrs. Hudson shouted back at them.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Don't shout, Molly, Dear," Mrs. Hudson's voice faded a bit, then rang clear. "I'm right here."

"What's happened, then?" Molly asked unable to completely dispel the anger and irritation from her tone.

"Oh, nothing much, Dear," and Molly didn't believe her. "How would you like to have dinner?"

"Dinner?" Molly's incredulous tone was echoed in the background.

"Yes, dinner," Mrs. Hudson's tone was suddenly firm, then it softened. "How about, say, seven?"

"Seven?"

"Seven, it is," Mrs. Hudson, triumphant. "See you then, Molly, Dear."

"But…" click. "Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson!"

Then nothing, silence. Molly sighed, frustrated, as her jacket landed in a heap on the tile of the kitchen floor. The urge to launch her phone at the nearest wall seized her, but she resisted: irrational. She would just call back. Tell them she couldn't make it, at least ask why.

 _Why, now?_

Molly had an idea, but it didn't mean she wanted to- if she could. A heaviness settled in her chest. No answer, of course.

5:13- Molly groaned.

It was selfish. She was being selfish. Would she be willing to do anything less for any of her other friends: John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, or anyone, really? No, she wouldn't, not Molly Hooper.

She shook her head with another sigh, or perhaps releasing the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding when she got John's voice mail, again. Defeated, another sigh, she dragged herself to the Washroom, sure she smelled like formaldehyde, regardless of her own inability to detect the scent with any real accuracy. It would still be impolite.

Molly adjusted the shower nobs, the temperature much hotter than was usual, in the hopes of working out some of the sudden tension she felt all over. Yet, she managed to straighten her spine, determined to be strong. Carefully, she climbed in; pretending her heart wasn't racing, or that she wasn't picking apart every outfit she owned as Sherlock would, even that her decision hadn't been made by a technique she'd picked up from the devil himself.

Even then, she was all too aware, that despite the cascading water, regardless of how hard she tried, no amount of pretending or noise would ever drown out those three little words. Eight stupid letters strung together, spoken without so much as a hint of untruth. Breathless and earnest. The very ones that caused her whole world to stop spinning before it all came crashing down around her- in that voice she loved so fuckin' much…

"I love you."

* * *

A/N: Hi, again! All of the Chapters won't be this short, or this quick prolly. (or have notes this long- promise) I have school and work, and I wanna do this right lol. So bear with me. Also, and most importantly, you guys are flippin' amazing! Seriously, I was so nervous, and I never expected so much support. It's overwhelming. Super motivating too. Eeeek!

So, a few reasons, I guess, for what we got here lols. I feel like Mycroft, despite being Mycroft, and based on his reactions during and after the phone call would allow Sherlock to bring Molly into the know. I also think Sherlock would think it would be easier on her and him, maybe an excuse not to deal with it, as well as tell Mycroft to fuck off even if he said no. He trusts and loves Molly.

John would be the one to deliver the news. I don't think Sherlock would be ready to handle her or that.

As for the beautiful Molly Hooper. For the record, I do not think she's weak in any respect. Love is love and they are friends, also love is forever, whatever kind it is, and yes it transforms, but shipper goggles. (also canon lol) As much as it hurts, she manages, because Sherlock needed her to. Molly is a selfless person naturally, and not just when it pertains to Sherlock. She is strong enough to be in his life, to still be a good friend, to all of them, even if it would be much easier to say fuck it.

That being said, especially considering the backlash, (which what?) and sort of sometimes backwards feminism (I am a feminist to the core, btw, but think sometimes we forget were allowed to feel, to be human, as if that's strictly a girly thing?) I think Molly would feel like she's weak. I probably would, and that's what feeling as if you can't do anything about something feels like, a weakness. I try to illustrate her strength through her thoughts and her actions- using Sherlock's technique of using others to gauge his moral compass the same way she gauges her decisions. Don't kill me- she'll get better, and u better believe Sherlock will point it out for her at some point. - it's a journey for both of them.

Again, you guys are amazing, next we visit John's head, because the look on his face when Sherlock started smashing the coffin was like, finally seeing the light, which he hasn't told Molly about- I think we'll leave that for Sherlock? 333


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson knew trauma; professionally, personally. He was a doctor, a soldier, and a widower. The former brought knowledge, the latter two, understanding. There was loss, and then there was _loss_. The difference dependent upon the individual. Their ability to process it: the event and the ramifications.

The worst of it, often, not the actual violence, actions taken, physical damage sustained or dulled out, but the reaction. The repression. Adapting to survive by whatever means necessary: as the light inside dies, becoming something decidedly less than human.

A shattered shell of the person you'd once been; despising what you've become, terrified that there's no way back- of finding it: the inevitable fall out. Broken: burning all the while.

Sherlock Holmes: all of those things and more.

There were tears in John's eyes as his best friend pleaded. The pain evident in his voice and etched in every facet of his being. Mycroft, not being Mycroft, hardly able to keep his cool. It was on the wrong side of surreal.

Sweet loving Molly Hooper- the last person everyone thinks of: everyone but Sherlock.

'I LOVE YOU'

John, Mycroft, even, slow on the uptake, but Sherlock as quick and sharp as ever, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

He was, John realized. Sherlock hovering over the coffin, for support, struggling for composure, rattled beyond anything previous: giving evidence for what he'd known the second he glimpsed the engraved words.

'I LOVE YOU' – Molly Hooper.

Watching Sherlock pray, if only to Molly, even as he did the same. Then the anger and devastation when Sherlock made his request. The challenge as he pleaded.

"Go on, you say it. Say it like you mean it."

The hesitation: the agony, and John remembered. Christmas, Sherlock's apology: heartfelt, shocking. Molly: Sherlock's confidant, his safe-haven, his partner, his friend, his humanity just as much as anyone else, as John himself.

"I love you."

Sherlock's heart

There was no doubt. Just as true for Sherlock as it was for Molly. Maybe not always, maybe not like that, but the coffin- or lack thereof, in the end, more than proof enough. For John, and Eurus, even Mycroft, but especially Sherlock.

That would have been enough without all the rest.

It was gut wrenching, sickening: tragic. Sherlock had become Sherlock out of necessity. To survive. Now, he wasn't. Not in his own mind. The truth damning, devastating, mind numbing in the rawest way imaginable, incomprehensible- earth shattering.

That was for him: for Sherlock, John could hardly begin to fathom.

Something, anything: of course, it was Molly. Molly: always. John should've have asked from go, but it would have been cruel- difficult, possibly even too much; for him, for her, for all of them. John was at a loss, afraid: the odds it would prove detrimental… he worried still, but they were at the end of their rope, so he took a page from Sherlock's book.

Not the manufactured Sherlock: the Sherlock he was forced to become, but what he was now beginning to see had always been the real Sherlock. The part that frequently threw him for a loop. The man that loved Molly Hooper and truly; loved them all, and they loved in turn.

The ghost of the little boy that died along with Redbeard.

"I'm not using," it was out of Sherlock's mouth before Molly crossed the threshold.

He was set in his chair, his elbows propped on the arms, staring intently at his slim steepled fingers, which had stopped drumming at the first timid knock. John fought the urge to hold his breath, but sat a bit stiff in his own seat. Nervous and a little more than apprehensive.

Sherlock brooded, for hours, not bothering to clean up, no amount of coaxing successful. It was something, better than nothing, or so he told himself.

"Of course, not," Molly straightened from cuddling Rosie, who was cradled in Mrs. Hudson's arms, brow furrowed. "What- Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"I _was_ bleeding."

"There's blood, on your face, Sherlock," Molly frowned and John shrank back a little himself. "It's in your hair."

"He dirtied the kitchen, too," Mrs. Hudson, disapproving.

"Yes, well," Sherlock fidgeted, irritably, nervously: Molly crossed the room. "No one's dead, so…"

"Oh, I'm sure that can be arranged, Dear," Mrs. Hudson, again. "The kitchen, the settee…"

"Just a scratch, Molly," John, guilty, though regretting it immediately when her ire turned on him.

"And you, then?"

"Oh, ah," ducking his head, turning slightly, attempting to shield his blooming shiner. "Well, you know…"

"Idiots, the both of them," Mrs. Hudson declared glaring, then smiling when she turned to Molly. "Would you like some wine, Molly Dear? Supper should be ready in jiff, had a bit of a delay, I'm afraid."

"I can see," no ire for Mrs. Hudson, but not thrilled, "and no thank you, just something to see to Sherlock."

"Molly…" Sherlock trailed off at Molly's stern glance.

"This way then," Mrs. Hudson gestured for Molly to follow. "I do recommend the wine, though, Dear. I'm on my second."

"I've got it," John popped up from his chair, unable to pass up the opportunity to talk to Molly in private, maybe explain a little: definitely apologize. "Mrs. Hudson back to your wine. Sherlock your brooding."

"I do not brood," Sherlock's parting shot, which was far from up to par, followed them down the hall.

John was nervous, his hands clenched and unclenched at his side, but he was prepared to beg.

"Can't you find him a proper therapist?" Molly all but pleaded as she opened the medicine cabinet.

"We have. Six," John replied honestly, seeing no reason to dance around it.

Molly was a smart woman, probably smarter than then rest of them, and combined, when it came to Sherlock: this Sherlock.

"Six?"

"Yes, well, in Sherlock's defense," John realized just how far they'd fallen. "Gods I can't believe this is actually happening, but it is more than understandable, Eurus posed as my therapist…"

John had always excepted Sherlock, more or less, but never had he excused his best friend's abhorrent behavior, especially not to Molly Hooper.

"What did he do, then?" Molly was closed off, John felt a whole new pang of guilt.

"Interrogated them, frightened them really," John admitted, shrugging helplessly. "One, the last one, almost lasted the whole hour before he burst into tears, but…"

"Sherlock won't," she finished simply.

"No," John shrugged helplessly.

"And…" Molly prompted.

"Talk to him?"

"I'm a Pathologist, John, not a Therapist," Molly sighed irritably.

"He trusts you, Molly," John implored gently, knowing his friend was more so hurt than irritated.

"He trusts you too."

"It's got to be you, Molly," John insisted, trying to determine the best way to tell her without adding farther complications: ones no one seemed at all prepared to deal with. "I wouldn't be- well, we've exhausted every other avenue."

"'Course you have," Molly huffed, and John's heart sank.

"No, no, no, Molly," he began quickly. "That's not what I…"

"It's fine, John, really, it's okay," Molly sighed, defeated. "So, you want me to do what, exactly?"

"To be honest, I dunno," and he didn't. "But more so now than ever, I think you're the only person who has ever truly seen Sherlock, understands him, the real Sherlock…"

Molly sniffled causing John to trail off. Swamped with guilt, he was about to beg her pardon, tell her to forget it, but she spoke first.

"You need my expertise in Sherlock Bullshit Detecting, then, is it?"

"Yes, yes, yes," a wave of relief swept through him. "That's exactly what we need."

Molly groaned as she shut the medicine cabinet, but in a way John knew she was willing.

"Thank you, Molly," he told her sincerely. "I'm so sorry, but thank you. I know it won't be easy…"

"Of course, it won't," Molly interjected but she wasn't scowling at him, she was wearing a poor excuse for a teasing smile. "If anyone knows how hard it is to love Sherlock Holmes it's Dr. John Watson."

"That," John offered his own weak smile, grateful Molly had it in her to reassure him that she didn't hate him or blame him even. "Is very true."

Molly actually laughed, it was a bit watery and hollow, but his own smile became slightly more genuine. What else should he have expected from Molly Hooper?

"I'm not promising anything, John," Molly was suddenly serious again.

He nodded, perhaps more enthusiastically than necessary.

"No, no, of course, not."

"But I will try," she reassured. "I'll do whatever I can. Promise."

"I know you will," John squeezed her shoulder gently, a whole new wave of affection flooding him. "Have I ever told you, how lucky we all are to have you?"

"No," Molly gave him a small sad smile, "but Mary did."

"Of course, she did."

John felt that familiar pang of longing, but also a burst of pride. His wife, his Mary- It was almost overwhelming. John's eyes burned. It was amazing what it could take to open one's eyes to such obvious truths. Molly was Sherlock's Mary. Closing his eyes, John took a deep breath, but when he opened them and his mouth to speak he realized Molly had slipped past him.

With another deep breath, he crept back down then hall and into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson leaning against the wall, cradling Rosie, who was asleep against her chest. There were silent tears streaming down the cheeks of the woman that had always been so much more than their Land Lady and definitely not their House Keeper.

John chest constricted, even more so when he followed her gaze.

Molly was perched on the side of Sherlock's chair looking as cross as the man they all loved enough to endure the pain that came with it. The exchange seemed to be over. It was currently a battle of wills. Without a doubt, John knew who would win- it was inevitable as anything he realized: always.

"Fine!"

Sherlock scowled, put out, but Molly smiled warmly, apologetically, triumphantly: lovingly.

"Think we can convince her to get him to fix the settee?" Mrs. Hudson whispered a bit hoarsely.

John shushed her quietly, but wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head.

"It's going to hurt a bit, okay?" Molly said quietly as she gently brushed the curls that had fallen across Sherlock's forehead to get at the gash.

"I know which one pain is," Sherlock snapped and jerked away.

John froze, his stomach sinking, Mrs. Hudson sucked in a sharp breath, Rosie stirred in her sleep, but Molly wasn't the least bit perturbed.

"Better than most," she agreed sadly but earnestly.

Seemingly unable to help himself, Sherlock's eyes were drawn to hers. For a long moment neither one of them spoke. John would have chalked it up to another battle of wills had it been somebody else at any other time… but it was more: so much more.

A conversation in a language none but the two of them understood.

"Alright then," Sherlock acquiesced after an extended moment and John relaxed. "But quickly, you're here for dinner and I'm famished. Also Mrs. Hudson's on her third glass of wine."

"Sherlock," Molly chastised, gently tilting his chin.

"Take away is always an option," Sherlock assured letting her, his eyes closing when Molly began carefully brushing his curls away once again.

"Don't you be rude," Molly warned softly. "Mrs. Hudson is good to you. She loves you."

"I know," it was Sherlock's normal smug tone, but John saw the smile playing at the corner of his lips. "That's why we'll wait till after she's done her fourth."

Molly's hands stilled and she finally looked down at Sherlock to find him smirking. Not a knowing cocky smirk, but a shy- sort of- smile. It was another beat before Molly laughed. Giggled really. It was as gorgeous as it was welcome, and John's heart swelled. Then even more so when Sherlock joined in.

"She'll never know," he reassured conspiratorially, smiling.

"What am I going to do with you, Sherlock Holmes?"

It was rhetorical, Molly teasing, shaking her head as the laughter trailed off, but Sherlock suddenly reached for her hand, taking it in both of his. He looked up at her intently. John held his breath just as Molly seemed to. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Mrs. Hudson answered first.

"Make him fix the settee."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

It was chorused and exasperated, but so was the laughter. It was something. More than something. Better than anything. John could breathe. It was hope.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days' past and Sherlock was decidedly not brooding. He did not, nor would he ever brood. He wasn't reflecting, or ruminating, or thinking, or anything people did when they weren't sleeping in the wee hours of the morning. That's what Sherlock was doing- not sleeping.

Sleep was a crutch. Sherlock Holmes had no use for a crutch. That was the reason, undoubtedly, why he hadn't slept so much as a wink in over two days. There were only so many hours in any given day after all. Time was limited, for everybody one way or another, and his more than most.

There were deductions to be made, experiments to preform, cases to solve, books to be read, telly to be watched, kitchens to be cleaned, settees to be fixed, walls to be stared at- and not shot. It was as they, whoever they were, not that it mattered, said, 'so much to do, so little time'. Even if he wasn't currently doing any of that, he could be.

Or it was a lie: one not even he could quite believe and not for lack of trying.

Sentiment was the death of logic. Sentiment was the enemy. It would be his downfall, he knew. Just as others knew the sky was blue- mostly, and the grass was green- normally. If not the why, not entirely, they still just knew. Sherlock just knew too: or he used to.

Knowing the why made the knowing in general murky at best, because knowing wasn't _knowing._

It made sense to him, sort of, maybe. In truth, nothing made very much sense to him anymore; not really, not entirely. It was bound to happen, he supposed. Nothing, that is to say everything, turning out to be not what he thought it was. What he was sure it was. What he knew it was.

Perfectly understandable, of course, to everyone: everyone but Sherlock.

Perhaps it was understanding? Were they different? Sherlock didn't know. He was, however, all but sure John would say so. Mrs. Hudson too. Maybe not Mycroft, but Molly would. Molly always seemed to understand: even when she didn't know- always.

Molly.

"Sherlock?" Molly was a bit breathless, her worry rang evident.

"Evening, Molly," he replied as casually as he could manage.

"Morning," she corrected automatically, then rustling. "What is it? What's happened, then?"

"Nothing?" it came out as more of a question than anything else.

Still, she seemed to believe there was no immediate danger of- whatever and sighed.

"Sherlock, you should be sleeping. It's half past two in the morning; what are you doin' up?"

"Not sleeping," because he wasn't.

Molly huffed and he heard the ruffling of sheets again. His heart sank as the thought she might just hang up on him struck him. It was jarring, if only because he knew not so much as a flicker of any sort of doubt would have plagued the old Sherlock. The new Sherlock- whoever, was all but certain that was exactly the direction this late-night chat was heading: to an abrupt end.

"Nightmares?" Molly questioned finally, quietly, sympathetically.

Sherlock's first instinct was to scoff, but he didn't, because she hadn't hung up.

"Did you know the average human being spends four months out of the year sleeping?" he said instead. "Four months, Molly. One could- one could cure cancer, or…"

"Is that what you're doing at half past two in the morning, then?" Molly seemed to be relaxing again, she yawned. "Curing cancer, are you?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Mmhmm," Molly didn't let him finish. "Alright then, what are you wearing, Sherlock?"

His face flush as his eyes widened. His mouth dropped open and he was positively certain his blush stretched across every inch of his flesh, biologically possible or no. He couldn't remember. For an extended moment, all he could do was what he was sure was a spectacular impression of a Guppy.

"Sherlock?"

"Molly," he managed, though his voice didn't quite sound like his own. "I know it's late- half past two in the morning, but I'm not entirely sure that's- ah- that's appropriate…?"

"What?" Molly sounded much more awake, there was a sharper ruffle of sheets. "Oh God, Sherlock, that's not- that's not what I meant! I just- I just meant- are you in your pajamas?"

"Oh," there was relief and something else that made his flush deepen. "Well, then, yes. Yes, I am wearing my- ah- I'm wearing my pajamas."

"Okay, that's good," she seemed to be trying to relax now that they were both on the same page, though he was certain her heart was beating something akin to his. "Where are you? You're in your chair, yea?"

"Yes…" Sherlock replied uncertain as to where this conversation was really going, he'd clearly lost control of the reigns.

"Get in bed."

"What?"

"Get in your bed."

"I like my chair."

"That's nice," he didn't think she really thought so. "Go get in your bed."

"Why?"

"Because I said so," her tone brokered no room for argument.

He didn't respond but complied, though not without making his reluctance positively evident. There was put-upon sigh and more grumbling than strictly necessary as he heaved himself out of his chair. A huff as he carefully patted barefoot towards his room, intent on avoiding any mishaps such as the one that had befallen him earlier.

"Are you in bed yet?"

"No," because he wasn't.

"Get in bed."

"Yes, Molly, working on it," his response was sharper than intended, and the urge to apologize seized him along with panic, afraid she really would hang up this time, so he quickly added. "Apologies, but it's dark, and while Pinky Toes are technically not essential to maintaining life…"

"Sherlock," Molly cut in, and though it was all but impossible to determine her tone he couldn't help adding.

"Please don't hang up."

There was a pause and he held his breath: waiting for the click.

"I'm not going to hang up, Sherlock," Molly replied evenly, firmly.

"I'm in bed," almost anyway.

He sort of leapt the last few feet.

"Good," she said after the ruffling of blankets died down.

"Now what?"

"Close your eyes," Molly entreated softly.

He didn't want to.

"Why?"

"How long has it been since you've slept?"

"Don't know," not down to the second.

"Alright, Sherlock."

"Alright, Sherlock, what?"

"You don't have to tell me," then he felt like he had to.

"Forty-nine hours, twenty-three… four minutes."

"And no cure for cancer?" he could hear Molly's smile. "Shame on you Sherlock Holmes."

He wished he could see it, so he closed his eyes, and he did.

"No, yet," he replied feeling somehow- lighter. Relaxed? Content-ed? er? "If you recall correctly, I did say four months."

"True, but you are the Great Sherlock Holmes."

"Am I?" the words left his mouth of their own accord.

His heart sank and his stomach twisted in the most uncomfortable manner.

"Absolutely," no hesitation, no doubt.

A truth. One Molly believed, and whole heartedly. He wanted to ask why, but wasn't sure he could bear to hear the answer: afraid, unsure.

"What's my favorite color?" came out instead.

Sherlock hadn't even known he'd been thinking it, but was suddenly very aware he knew he wanted to hear the answer: Molly's answer.

"Sherlock?"

"My favorite color, what is it? Yours is blue, what is mine?"

"Black," Molly replied a bit slowly, then firmer. "Your favorite color is black."

"How do you know?"

"Well, how do you?"

"It's the color of my eyes," belatedly he realized he might've made a mistake, but was saved from issuing another bumbling apology.

"That's why, Sherlock, not how."

"Alright then, why?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes deals in absolutes," Molly replied after a pause and he imagined her biting her bottom lip a bit as she mulled over whether or not to answer. "It's either black or it isn't."

"Why not white? Something is either white or it isn't, yes?"

"Yes, but…" then she sighed. "Are you really asking me to psychoanalyze you at half past two in the morning?"

"Ah… yes?" and he realized he sort of was- asking her to explain him- he amended. "Yes, I am."

"Because you, Sherlock Homes, can be as big an idiot as anyone," Molly replied, but somehow not unkindly. "More so, on occasion."

"Okay?"

He wasn't sure what to say to that, but then she chuckled, which made him smile, if only a little, even as she continued on a more serious note.

"Sherlock, for everything you see, everything you deduce…"

"Yes?" he prompted when she paused, though not entirely sure he wanted her to finish.

"Sometime, Sherlock, sometimes, you miss the most important bits, especially when it's about you."

 _You have no idea-_ then again, she probably did, better than most _, or anyone_.

"You've always been blind to the goodness inside of you. The good I've always seen. It's not just me either, Sherlock. It's John, Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mycroft, your Mum and Dad, and Mary. Everyone that loves you, and is lucky enough to be loved by you…"

There was a lump in his throat. He wanted to protest, because surely, after everything she could finally see how wrong she and they had always been, but he couldn't. Molly pressed on.

"It's not white, because for everything you are, there's more you think you're not: could never be. You're wrong, of course, and a complete idiot, but, that's why black."

"Well," he cleared his throat when he heard her nervous fidgeting. "Compared to me, you sound positively shallow."

He was rewarded with a sleepy chuckle that made his stomach do a strange sort of somersault.

"Or it could just be your wardrobe," she countered.

"I believe, that would be how, Dr. Hooper," his smile grew.

"Black goes with everything, then?"

"So, it does," Sherlock chuckled softly. "So, it does."

He imagined Molly pressing her blanket to her mouth to suppress the sleepy smile he could hear.

"Your smiling."

"Why do you say that?" he could still hear it, but her tone took on a shy sort of quality.

"Because I am," he wasn't sure why he told her, but he was glad he did when she laughed again, though shyly, then less so when she yawned. "You should be sleeping."

"Hmmm," she stifled another yawn. "I'm good."

"Then I need to sleep."

"Will you?"

"I think so," and he really did.

"I'm sorry, I've to work…"

"No, no, absolutely nothing to be sorry for, Molly" he assured when another yawn cut her off. "Thank you for answering."

"Always," she mumbled sleepily.

His heart skipped a beat and a not entirely unpleasant warmth flooded him.

"Sleep well, Molly Hooper," he whispered after a moment, unsure if she was still awake.

"Hmm, see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" his smile faltered.

"Mmhmm, or today, I suppose."

"For what?" he searched his mind but couldn't recall having to do, well, anything for at least a week.

"Don't you want to know what your favorite food is, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock felt his eyes widen then his brow furrow, but confusion was quickly replaced by something considerably more- pleasant.

"I do," his smile returned accompanied by something akin to wonder.

"Good-night, Sherlock."

"Good-night, Molly."

Sherlock had made many promises to himself after the devastation that came with Eurus' game. Not the least of them to shield Molly Hooper from any farther pain, to protect her, perhaps, especially, from himself. His friends and family, too.

Anguish stalked his every step: pouncing on anyone and everyone he cared about, or tried not to care about. All of them had suffered. Perhaps not directly due to his actions, not all of the time, but, at the very least, because of him in some way, shape, or form.

Sherlock had never been what one would consider a good man. He knew, and he agreed. Furthermore, he wasn't entirely sure he could be. He wasn't even sure who he was, not anymore, but he did know to protect Molly Hooper he would, at the very least, try.

When, the line went dead Sherlock was left with a sort of emptiness he was not terribly fond of. He didn't open his eyes, though, picturing Molly's sleepy smile as she drifted once again made it a bit more tolerable. Having something to look forward to, lunch with Molly, or was it dinner? He hadn't asked, either way it was something: probably more.

It was enough to allow him to relax. As Sherlock drifted too, focusing on the memory of Molly's sleepy chuckle, her smile, and the love and concern she'd always held for and shown him, despite- him, or what he used to be, he made another promise: he would more than try. Molly Hooper deserved it; deserved everything, and while he was nothing, he thought, just maybe, he could be more too.


End file.
